By Gus Garcia-Roberts December 30, 2010

It's midsummer, and a rainstorm beats against the neon-lit windows of a nearly empty dive bar. Inside, our heroine sits alone. She leaves a smear of red lipstick on the tumbler as she sucks Grand Marnier from the last bits of ice. The bartender — a craggy, slicked-back cat named Riley — pulls a preposterously long piece of paper from the pocket of his Armani shirt and adds another tally to her tab. He pours and slides her the drink, then goes back to wiping the bar spotless with a rag. His barback, a black-mopped kid named Erik, runs around frantically accomplishing not... More >>>